Frail in the Kill
by CarpeOmnius
Summary: Renesmee Cullen falls to a scent and a sound that she cannot resist.


This started out as a one shot, but I've decided to split it up. Maybe I'm just aching for more hits and reviews (pleeeaaase review, it makes me feel good, even if you hate it), but I feel like its easier to work with this way. So expect at least a chapter or two more, which will hopefully come soon. Besides, this seemed like a good enough time to post this, because I always imagined it set around Christmas.

Enjoy.

* * *

"I can still hear it."

"What?"

"His music. I can hear it inside me now." A pause. "Do you understand that?"

A breath. "I don't know if I can."

"Then I'll show you. I'll make you hear it."

* * *

A swell of warm air rushed around her as she stepped into the lobby, flowing under the layers of her long velvet-lined coat, bringing a soft flush to her fair skin. The snowflakes that had gathered on her shoulders and the top of her head glittered in the light of the tinkling chandelier above her, and slowly they melted into the fabric, their cool scent tickling her warming nose.

Slowly, she breathed the hotel lobby and its occupants gathered inside her. There was the floral scent of the decorations - the roses on the other side of the room were dying, and their decay was like the resonant echo of a plucked string. The air hummed with human voices, permeated by breath hot with the spicy remnants of dinner still on their tongues. Porous skin was swathed in expensive fabrics that were hardly worn, faces and hair thick with fraud. But still she let herself be seduced by the low, warm light, and the soft sound of a piano in the next room.

"Nessie, come _on_," Rosalie, tugging on her wrist. "I swear you could get lost in a pair of drapes."

Renesmee smiled and complied with her aunt's pull by following her forward. "Yes," she said, "or kill myself laughing over a carpet pattern, like the vampire Lestat."

"Ugh," said Rosalie, rolling her eyes. "Should never have let you read those books." She flipped the key card over her fingers and guided Renesemee to the winding, carpeted staircase.

"Letting has hardly anything to do with it," said Renesmee, pulling from her aunt's grasp and walking along beside her, dropping the hood of her coat onto her shoulders. Rosalie looked up at her, and it was her expression that spoke of an impossible blush instead of her complexion. Renesmee smiled at her softly in reassurance and they walked together up to the room.

"Here," said Rosalie, reaching for Renesmee's shoulders from behind once she shut the door behind them. Renesmee unclasped the buttons of her coat compliantly and let Rosalie slip it off her, and watched as she took the smell of the outside and hung it up in the closet. The room had a warm, natural feeling to it like the rest of the hotel with dark, mahogany furniture and soft white bedding. Edward always made sure that Renesmee got a room there when they were in the city.

Turning, Rosalie said, "Is there anything you'd like to do? No one will be here for a while." She smiled then, but didn't mean it. She rubbed the knuckle of her ring finger unconsciously. She was developing nervous habits, even after all these years.

"I can entertain myself," Renesmee said simply, and walked to the window.

"Right," Rosalie murmured, almost inaudibly, to Renesmee's back. "I'll be back later then." Renesmee nodded, and Rosalie slipped out with hardly a sound.

The closing of the door behind her created the illusion of silence around Renesmee, the kind that an ordinary human might have found oppressive. But silence did not exist to her. Even in the quiet, insulated room, the air whispered to her. She could hear the other guests in the hotel, the breeze that whistled past the window, and the almost imperceptible, even to her, pitter patter of snow flakes taking their perch on cars, the street and on the glass before her.

And in between the symphonious cacophony of the city and Renesmee's ears was a slow, slinking sound. Low and smooth, it hummed through the air, between buildings and over rooftops, creeping past the glossy, copper brown curls that blanketed her ears to nestle into her imagination. Pink, full lips parted like the gradual opening of a flower and her head titled, ever so slightly, cocking her head to the sound. It tickled her sensitive nerves, raising the hair on her back of her neck, and causing her breaths to become deeper.

And then, quite unexpectedly, with this rich, vibrating sound came a scent, and as soon as it touched her tongue her eyes brightened and her still body moved.

When Rosalie returned a little while later, all she would find in the now cool room was an open window, and while the sight disturbed her some, she was not entirely surprised.

* * *

Renesmee prided herself on her level of control ever since she was old enough to do so, which was not very old. Of course, it was an inherited trait from both her parents, but nonetheless it was one that she felt defined who she was as both a being and a person. Very few things could bring her to lose that control. She was teased by her family for her tendency to become easily distracted, absorbed in the minute details of the world around her, but she saw nothing wrong that. Her distractions made her feel at ease, so she hardly saw that as a fault in her hard shell of restraint, and she saw no reason she shouldn't lose herself conducting resounding orchestras in her mind or contemplating the make of the fabrics she wore. To her, there were few better ways to spend her time.

Even scents often did not compel her the way it did her brethren. She appreciated them like she would a beautiful painting or sonata, but that did not mean she felt she had to immediately devour it. Not always, anyway.

When she was young there were magnetic scents that arose from vulnerable, soft throats that made her dizzy with thirst, with need as great as her heart's was to beat. Still, somehow she could hold herself back.

And then there was Jacob. Her Jacob and his wild, earthy aroma, like that of a forest after a rainfall, with a spice that reminded her of harvest moons and fiery orange sunsets. From his skin and hair drifted a fragrance that made a quiver run through her bones, that created a hungering ache in her hands that was different from any other desire she had ever known. She was not born with this hyperawareness, this fascination with every molecule of his russet skin, but she remembered the light that flamed in her chest when she first kissed him. She was still so small that, even with him sitting before her, she had to stand on her toes to take his face in her hand and press her lips to his. He had stared at her wide eyed, his large hands limp on his knees, and she smiled as she felt his hot blood rush into his face under her hands. The desire to spill that blood and release its feral aroma into the air fluttered across her mind, but was quickly overpowered by the need to embed herself into his chest so that her heart would beat next until time stopped. Still, she did not know, did not feel it, did not smell it. Not then.

It was when the Cullen clan was invited to a party hosted by a pair of Parisian vampires, Theodora and Etienne, who liked to keep human company. They did not abstain, rather they seemed to relish in torturing themselves by filling their home with warm, living bodies, offer them extravagant gourmet food and watch them float giddily about each other until a few of them would have the misfortune of capturing the interest of their pearl-skinned hosts, both philosophically and viscerally. The couple fascinated Carlisle, even with all their sadistic glamour, and so they accepted the invitation, introducing Renesmee as Bella's sister to the mortal partygoers, as she already, at the chronological age of five, looked the same age as both her parents. Renesmee had begged Jacob to come, and they both succumbed to his introduction as a family friend. It was not a lie, after all, and while Etienne turned up his nose at the first whiff of him, he allowed him inside without a second thought.

Human food was not something Renesmee had been exposed to in excess throughout her short life - there was of course no need for it, unless it was as a last resort or needed for cover. But here there were piles of luscious dishes, the fragrance of which confused itself with Renesmee's awareness of the human beings around her. A young guest, the son of an American senator who Theodora had been following with her burgundy eyes most of the night, was bewildered but excited by Renesmee's ignorance and brought her bites to try, some of which startled and even disgusted her with their powerful taste, and others melted warmly down her throat.

When dessert came, the boy brought her a dark chocolate mousse truffle, holding it out to her as he watched the lighting in the room glitter off her brown eyes. She was too immersed in her newfound curiosity in fine cuisine to notice his budding fascination, and eagerly took her first bite. The flavor was rich and bitter at the same time, and her mind fought to keep up with all the information her tongue was processing. She realized the boy was smiling at her.

"What is it?" she asked, almost surprised she could will her mouth to form words when it was so preoccupied.

"You're blushing," he said, his eyes dancing over her newly transformed face.

Her mind then registered the warm feeling in her cheeks and neck, and she inhaled deeply to settle herself. With that breath, a new sensation filled her nose and throat, a flavor so exotic and textured it caused the blush to spread beneath her soft silk dress. This was not the chocolate she was tasting, she realized quickly, and her eyes flew from the boy, to the food in her palm, to the people around her. And there he was, watching her from about twenty feet behind the senator's son, his deep brown eyes following the new flush in her skin up to her eyes. His fragrance was coiling its way between the people around them, to creep its way into her, and she was aware of the dampness of his skin and fever pulse that powered his impressive form, and her tongue and mouth begged to taste it, but not in a way that she was familiar with.

Renesmee could not remember what happened to the truffle or the boy after that point, only placing her small hands to Jacob's broad chest and feeling a vibration run through her bones as he smiled down at her.

Therefore, it should be needless to say that it was not often that Renesmee found herself flying out of windows in pursuit of some intangible trail that had crept into her hotel suite. Nonetheless, here she was, speeding over rooftops, wind and light snow whipping through her long white dress and wild but never tangled hair, chasing this song. She was not thinking of what she would do once she found it, of how far she was willing to do to capture it, she only knew she had to be closer, close enough to feel it inside her.

The music became louder and Renesmee was aware she was not the only one listening. Every once in while she caught a glimpse of a human paused at a window, cocking a head to the side. Some even braved the cool air to open their windows or stand out on their balconies, just to hear it a little better even amongst the sound of traffic below them or the wind around them. She was close. It would not be long now.

She paused with her toes at the edge of one rooftop where she could finally see from where it came. A form bent over his instrument - an elegant, glossy cello - stroking the bow back and forth creating a slow, mournful melody that hummed over Renesmee's skin. She stood there, both watching him, hearing him and smelling him - the way his life's perfume mixed with sharp taste of the cello's polish, the stinging scent of the strings as they sang to her, and the way his heart pumped to his song as his body swayed with love for his music.

Suddenly, the music stopped, for his head had jerked up and hand holding the bow had dropped. He gasped and his eyes widened as he looked upon her. Renesmee did not remembering deciding to go inside. She must have come in through the window, for she stood with her back to it, and she had the vague recollection of closing it after stepping inside. He must not have realized she was standing there for some time.

He was a man perhaps in his late sixties, his hair light gray and thin, his face lined but still carrying a firmness about it. His eyes were the color of a stormy sea, a dark blue-gray, and they sparkled with fear as he stared at the breathing statue before him, her hair and skin glittering with droplets of snow. His thin mouth attempted to form words - "Who? What? How?" - but the sound would not come.

Finally, when a small croak nearly tumbled over his lips, she said to him, "Please." His eyes widened further, stunned that the sculpture could speak. "Play for me," she finished.

His fingers gripped feebly at the neck of the cello. "Play for you?" he finally managed.

"Yes," she said. The corners of her mouth turned upwards in a pleading smile.

"Is that…is that why you are here?" he asked

"Yes," she said, happy that he was understanding. "I heard you."

The man looked down at his instrument, at himself, and licked his lips. Finally, he looked up at her again, and asked, "What would you like to hear?"

Renesmee settled to her knees on the floor before her, her feet tucked under her. "Anything," she said. "Anything you play would be beautiful."

Bowing his head again, tentatively, he picked up his instruments slowly, in a way that made it seem as though he had forgotten how to hold them temporarily. He licked his thin lips again and then with an exhale he became still. He had decided. The bow moved and sound filled the room, a sound that seemed to be chill Renesmee's stony skin and warm her insides at the same time.

The man did not play a song that she knew, though if he had, she hardly would have noticed. It was not the melody that she had come for. She had come for him, for his soul. Renesmee had heard many a cello played before, and while she loved everyone one and every player, none of them were like this. No warm, fragrant human had been like this. Her lips parted, her tongue playing on the edge of her mouth, as though to taste the notes that he drew from the strings, his smell on the air. She inhaled deeply and his song filled her, and she made a sound so small and helpless that he did not hear. The man was lost in his music as much as she was, so much that he did not realize how close she was to him until her small, cold hand fell on his knee.

The music stopped, and he looked up at her. She was still on her knees, but upright and her eyes were wide and wild as they searched his lined face. He felt stupid and soft before her and her stone-like touch.

"I'm sorry," she said finally, even though her expression was still that of unbridled excitement.

He smiled at her. "Don't be," he said. "To see such beauty after all this time….its more than an old man could ask for."

And with that reassurance, Renesmee took the back of his neck firmly in one hand and leaned to sink her teeth into his soft throat.


End file.
